I’m sunburned, my legs hurt from 3 trips up and down a mountain, and the night skyline consists of twinkly bits of neon that reflect on the black water. The call to prayer worked its way across the coast, and the little “beep beep” following the Müezzin‘s words echoed like a tiny rock skips on a lake. Each time a little quitter, a few less ripples, but you think you can see or hear the 10th or 20th reverberation.
I’ve been to the beach three times in two days; heavy waves nearly trapped me in the Mediterranean, but I saw a rainbow in one crash and somehow crawled my way out; a man on the beach introduced himself as Ömer, but assured me it would be easier if I just call him Amor (subtle); I’ve finished half of two books; my fridge is filled with delicious Turkish groceries (although I still need my hazelnut spread fix); drunk people rage to Celine Dion on their pirate ship booze cruises; two mopeds pass me on a walk up the mountain – on one, a topless German woman and her boyfriend, on the other, a covered Turkish woman and her boyfriend.
Surely, this can be no place but Alanya.